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“Sure.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath and then another.
“Okay. Back to professional mode.”
I waited while she got out another laptop and came back over, folding her legs up on the couch and then setting the computer on them.
“So. If there’re any questions you feel uncomfortable with, just let me know and I’ll move on. You only tell me what you want to tell me, okay?” I nodded. I was pretty open about most of my shit, so I wasn’t particularly bothered about what she might ask. Sure, I did have people who, when I explained I was pansexual, asked me if I loved cookware.
“How about we start with how long you’re been working at the café.” Oh, right.
“Um, about two years, I think? Yeah, that seems about right.” Wow, it didn’t seem like it had been that long.
“And how did you get the job?” I went into the story of meeting Jen randomly at a rally for Planned Parenthood and realized that she was one of the owners of the café in town. We’d struck up a conversation about witty protest signs and she’d essentially given me a job on the spot. It had been perfect timing because I’d needed one desperately.
“What does it mean to you, as a part of the LGBTQ community to work at a place that celebrates you?” Lacey asked. I had to think about that one for a minute.
“It means that I can be myself. That I can talk about my life and not worry about hiding. That I can be a girl who dates girls, or a girl who dates someone of any or no gender, and it’s embraced and celebrated. It’s the most freeing, comfortable thing in the world. It’s my family.” I wiped at my cheeks and found tears. Wow.
“It felt like a safe place for you. Is your family supportive of you?” I snorted and wiped my eyes on my sleeve.
“That’s a no. I’m pretty sure my mom is just praying I’ll settle down and marry a nice boy and have babies and go to PTA meetings like a ‘regular’ person.” I put “regular” in air quotes.
“Hm, sounds familiar,” Lacey said as she typed. I knew so little about her and I wanted to know everything. Yet here I was, spilling my guts.
“She’s also horrified about my hair,” I said, pulling a strand in front of my eyes and studying it. “The first time I dyed it she grounded me for a week.” Ah, memories. I was a rebellious teenager and I didn’t give a fuck about my parent’s rules. Sure, I understood why they had some of them. But others were just made so that we could appear to be a nice, normal family. When we very much weren’t.
“I don’t like to think about my family,” I said. We might live in the same town, but I avoided them as much as I could. I was an expert at dodging my parents in the grocery store if I saw them.
“I’m sorry,” Lacey said, her fingers typing. I knew she was taking down my words, but she was also going to add other things.
“Would you . . . would you mind if I took your picture right now?” she asked, slowly setting down her laptop.
“I guess not,” I said. I wasn’t sure that I looked all that great, but she was a photographer and there was something about the way she asked me that made me say yes.
“Hold still,” she said, putting her hands out as if I was going to lunge away or do something.
“I will,” I said, trying not to move my lips and watching her as she scurried around the room, getting different things that she apparently needed.
At last, she came back over with a camera. It was definitely one of the fancy ones that she used for work. For some reason, having her take my picture here and not at the café was making me feel on display. Vulnerable. Or maybe it was because I was telling her all kinds of personal things about my past and my relationship with my family.
I expected her to tell me to look or feel a certain way, or maybe to even fix my hair, but she didn’t do that. She just snapped a few pictures. Silently. It was eerie, hearing the click of the lens. Lacey paused, as if she was waiting for something.
“Should I do anything?” I asked after a few moments of silence.
“No. I’m sorry. You’re just so beautiful.” I felt myself blushing.
“Thank you.” She was beautiful. I was so ordinary. I mean, my hair was unusual, but other than that I was pretty plain.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked me.
“How gorgeous you are,” I said and then shut my mouth. She clicked a few more times and then sat back on the couch.
“Look at you,” she said, showing me some of the digital images. I didn’t see anything remarkable, but I guess she did.
“You’re stunning,” she said, looking at them. “Just so beautiful.” I coughed and she shook her head a little, as if she was trying to clear it.
“Sorry. Got a little carried away. I get like that sometimes.” Setting the camera down, she picked up her laptop again and typed out a few words.
“Okay, so, moving on. Why do you think places like Violet Hill are important for people?” I turned that one over in my brain again.
